She opened the chat with “What’s your Waterview Tunnel song?” As a beginning to a Tinder conversation, the question had the energy of someone whose bio says Fuck small talk. I want big talk. Fuck what you do for a living. I want to know how you’re loving yourself and how you’re growing as a person even though her bio didn’t. I didn’t know I was supposed to have a Waterview Tunnel song. To be fair, this question is a burden I brought upon myself by mentioning in my bio that I like singing in the car. It’s something to say. You have to say something. Surely I have made more impact on the absurdist aeon of my thirty-three years than to have nothing to say about myself in my bio. my Waterview Tunnel song is my heart beating so fast I can no longer hear the world rushing in my ears my Waterview Tunnel song is quick breathing just before I have a panic attack my Waterview Tunnel song is my car and me conspiring against my ex-husband to make him break the passenger side window the first time we drove through it to meet my most devastating sister at the airport my Waterview Tunnel song is the sound of AM radio when it’s underground my Waterview Tunnel song is white noise turned all the way up my Waterview Tunnel song is me screaming continuously from one end to the other my Waterview Tunnel song is ‘Who wants to live forever’ slowed down so that it’s seventeen minutes long my Waterview Tunnel song is their slow breathing when they’ve fallen asleep and I haven’t yet But you can’t say that on Tinder. My Waterview Tunnel song is the sound of my head falling back on a pillow, lengthened enough to fill the interminable gasp of deluge zone after deluge zone.
Featured photo by Matt L. via Greater Auckland.